


Percussion, Salt and Honey

by deathwailart



Series: Eimhir Lavellan [7]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 13:31:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2852549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eimhir and Blackwall in the Emerald Graves sneaking away from camp for a bit of time alone away from prying eyes and ears.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Percussion, Salt and Honey

Camping feels like home to her even if she will always prefer the creaking of an aravel and the silken sails to the heavy tarps of inquisition tents. The tarps just smell strange, something Vivienne agrees with when Eimhir mentioned it once in her presence, the cold of the ground reaches you and it's just not as comfortable. Practical, she can't deny that, but she does miss an aravel really and the grain of wood worn smooth from countless years of travel, the one she shared with family smelling of cedar – it kept the flies away too, a problem when you end up covered in blood and worse like they do. But she likes it better than Skyhold honestly. She likes hearing the wind blow and whip at the tent, the pattering of rain and how she can look out and see the sky because she can't see the stars so easily in Skyhold even though she's up in the mountains. The voices might be different, other languages, other accents but there were always shifts on watch at the main camp or when she and other hunters explored the further reaches of the forest on patrol or when hunting, a steady crackling and background hum. Some of the others, the city folk who know houses and stone walls, think she's mad for saying she'd still rather camp but Blackwall has always smiled and nodded same as Solas, all of them knowing what it's like to know the strange freedom that comes with the outdoors.  
  
Besides, she shares a tent with Blackwall, she gets her own personal furnace and he might grouse if she elbows him out of the warm spot or sticks cold hands and feet on his warm skin but he'll never stop her, only pulling her close instead. She tucks her face into his neck when her teeth chatter in Emprise du Lion, not so much from the cold itself but from remembering when she was so sore and tired, when the wolves howled for her and she had to force numb and weary legs to keep going just a little longer. There's a bleary memory from back then of him by her bed, chafing warmth into her hands the way he does now after she's pressed them to his cheeks or his throat, telling him to feel how cold they are the way she would with her friends at home. She doesn't like Emprise du Lion much really. Too many Red Templars, too many demons and those awful giants and dragons. Not that anywhere is much better these days. Crestwood and the Fallow Mire had undead, the Exalted Plains are scarred by war, Ferelden really does smell like dog, not that she minds but she thinks about Mahariel and the stories too much when they're in the Hinterlands and of the future that might have been. The Western Approach is so hot she could melt in her leathers.  
  
The Emerald Graves though, she loves it there and while she's started to enjoy the sound of the sea at the Storm Coast, there's a history in the Graves that she can feel in her very bones. They do good work there and one day she wants to run and hunt for hours in the forests, press her palms and forehead to the trees and just be there.  
  
Tonight she has other plans as she sits by the fire with Blackwall, Varric and Dorian. Varric is telling a tale for the scouts and she loves him for it because he's as exhausted as they are but he still always makes an effort if someone asks him a question, still puts on a story and Dorian is busy with another few scouts too, a conversation Eimhir herself has been drawn into a few times that's about demons and how to fight them best. Dorian has a way with words like Varric, the right sort of wit to help make the recruits laugh and she's able to extract herself from the conversation eventually, nudging Blackwall with her knee.  
  
"Come on," she tells him, rising to her feet, "no one will miss us."  
  
Still, they take their weapons with them because you can't be too careful these days and both of them are people who know the wilds. Blackwall only had himself really, Eimhir at least had the security of at least one other hunter by her side. She leads him by the hand, away from the camp, close enough that they can still see the light of the fire before she leans back against a tree and stretches up to her tiptoes, pulling him close. He almost stumbles, caught off guard for a rare moment and she grins as he catches himself with one arm on the tree by her head, the other at her waist. She kisses away any questions he might have because there's a very good reason she left the camp with him and though no one would mind if they went into the tent, she's missed this. This was her life before, not her whole life but patrols were long and dull and you took distractions where you found them before you settled down and got married. She used to drag their Keeper's Second with her, Badb with her serious face and sharp tongue, or sometimes it would be her and Conrí, the hunter she was paired with most often. He's the one who deepens the kiss and she sighs into it. Moments like this and she can forget that the world is going completely crazy and pretend it's just them and their friends and nothing else.  
  
"My lady?" He asks, voice husky and teasing when they break apart and she grins, taking his shield from him and he gets the idea, removing her daggers, setting their weapons by her feet just to be safe. "Out here?"  
  
"We dealt with the Free Men and rifts and the giant lures are," she points into the dark in the other direction, "that way so there isn't much that should disturb us. Do you have any objection?"  
  
"Not at all, did you have anything in mind?"  
  
"Maybe I want it to be a surprise," she replies and he smiles at her, slipping a leg between hers as she walks her fingers up his chest and to his chin, guiding his face towards hers again. She kisses him slowly and when she presses forward she can feel his cock half-hard against her and she breaks the kiss with a grin, pushing him back a little. "Or maybe I want you on your knees."  
  
"I am yours to command," he tells her and she doesn't really know why that sends a thrill through her but it does and her heart beats faster.  
  
There's no point in stripping all the way, not out in the wilds where they might have to fight or where someone might stumble on them and it's a shame because she does like to peel him out of his armour and let him do the same to her, kissing lazily and exploring every bare inch of skin but this is what she wants tonight and he wants it too. The ties to her trousers are simple enough to deal with and he's had plenty of practice at helping her peel down the tight leather over her thighs and to just past her knees where the top of her boots are. There's no way she's wriggling out of those and it's a bit of a squeeze but he fits between her thighs, kissing his way down as she squirms and reminds herself to stay silent. There are worse things too much noise might draw than an audience and laughter when they return to camp and she has no desire to have to haul up her leathers to fight some prowling bandit or wild animal because she made too much noise. His mouth is warm, the scrape of his beard familiar on sensitive skin and she moans quietly, arching her hips up towards him as he chuckles and moves a hand to wrap around her hip to press her back against the tree. She's strong enough that she could still move if she wanted to but she stays where she is for now, biting her lip as she looks down at him in the dark, threading her fingers through his hair. As ever, he allows her to guide, to push when he doesn't move the way she wants him to and she thinks of other times in Skyhold, like the time he laid her back on the bed, only using his mouth and hands until she was boneless and trembling, too sore to do more and the insides of her thighs rubbed raw from his beard or the time she rode him and told him to wait and he did, when she come once, twice, three times before she whispered for him to come too and then apologised for the bruises at her hips that she kept touching until they faded. She still doesn't know how she feels about leading something like the inquisition but she does like telling him what to do and that even when they're joking that he'll still do it. That kind of commanding she could maybe get used to. He parts her folds, slides a fingertip along to brush past her clit and she huffs out a breath she didn't realise she was holding, tugging his hair a little harder before he chuckles and ducks his head.  
  
She expects him to dive right in as it were but tonight he's either teasing or gentle, it's difficult for her to decide really, broad pressure of his tongue against her folds as though they have all the time in the world. His grip on her hip is light enough to let her rock her hips forward to meet him and they fall into a lazy rhythm, Eimhir running her fingers through his hair as she gasps and lets her head fall back to stare up at the patches of sky through the canopy above. He moves to suck her folds gently, tugging lightly at them and she whimpers, warm heat building in the small of her back and her belly and tries to thrust with a little more urgency but he presses her back. She might have told him what to do but he's apparently going to do it at his own pace tonight. He licks up to her clit, circles it and she clenches around nothing in anticipation but then he ignores it and she makes a noise of frustration that turns into a moan when she feels his laughter instead of hearing it.  
  
"Come on," she urges quietly and he either takes pity on her or takes it as a command because he's fucking her with his tongue and fortunately for them both her breath catches in her throat, a quiet strangled moan escaping her. She wants to watch him but she can't move, toes curling in her boots as her orgasm washes over her, aborted little movements of her hips that she can't help, her knees almost giving but Blackwall is there, holding her up as she shudders and bites her lip. When she can finally open her eyes and look down at him, he's staring right back at her, his beard wet from her and she laughs shakily, a laugh that turns into a moan when he presses two fingers into her slowly, body clenching around them and he lets the hand on her hip slide down to her thigh so she can fuck herself on them. She doesn't quite catch what he murmurs to her but he kisses her mound and with his thumb, he brushes over her clit, watching her carefully. She nods, not trusting herself to speak and it's his tongue then, quick flicking licks as he crooks his fingers inside her and she moans.  
  
"You need to be quiet," he tells her, pulling away for a moment and she nods but she can't let him have the last word.  
  
"Take it as," she swallows thickly because he's still moving his fingers, adding a third and she can feel just how slick and wet she is, "a testament to your skill." She just about gets the words out and directs his mouth back where she wants it, letting him carefully suck her clit, a graze of teeth again the root and she's already so close, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else. She rolls her hips and he lets her, alternating the quick movements of his tongue from before with careful tight little circles and it's too much and not enough and her second orgasm catches her by surprise, sudden and intense and she whimpers, curling forward as her breath comes out almost like a sob.  
  
She urges him to her feet once even while she's still breathless, still wanting more, kissing him and tasting herself on his lips and tongue, uncaring for the mess as her fingers fumble with his belt. When she slips a hand inside the front of his trousers he groans, eyes squeezed shut and she tilts her head back so she can watch, fingers slow and teasing, thumb pressing against the underside of the head of his cock then up, over the wetness at the head and then back down.  
  
"I won't last if you keep that up," he warns, voice ragged and she nods because as much as she wants to see how easily she could bring him off, just light touches and asking him just how much he enjoyed tasting her and lapping at her cunt, she wants him to fuck her. She can't do exactly what she wants – her in his arms, legs around his waist, that'd require more undressing than this – but they get his trousers out of the way and she spreads her thighs a little wider and he steps between them, warm and strong and solid.  
  
He doesn't enter her right away, instead he grips his cock and slides against her, the head brushing her clit and any time she's felt that before has been before or after and almost always accidental, never this deliberate. She's wet enough that it eases the way and she's surprised at how much she likes it and when she looks up at him and the almost smug grin on his face, she can tell he's done it before, some little trick he's been holding out on. Next time. Next time in a bed and they can explore it slowly but right now she just _wants_ so she puts a hand on his wrist to still him and tells him to hurry up and fuck her.  
  
It only takes one thrust for him to bury himself in her, her hands finding his shoulders and holding tight as he gives her a moment even if she doesn't need it, not when she's come twice already and can feel a third beckoning. She can't do much but she rises up a little and then sinks back down and his hands are on her hips, finding a rhythm easily. She brings one hand down to touch her clit, rubbing lightly with two fingers, sensitive enough that it hurts if she presses down too hard or too fast and it's a counterpoint to his thrusts, quick and deep and just what she wants. He stifles any noises he wants to make against her shoulder, rhythm starting to falter already and she grinds down, her body clenching around him until he groans and stills against her for a moment, spilling inside her. She comes again, a wave of heat more than anything else, muscles barely fluttering although her thighs are trembling and when he pulls out of her she sinks to the ground with just enough semblance of mind to tug her trousers up as much as she can. He tucks her close to his side when he joins her and she wants to kiss him but it's too much effort so she settles for squeezing his hand as she waits for her pulse to return to normal and for her legs to be able to support her. The night air is too cold now against her flushed cheeks so she squirms closer or tries to, swearing because she's too sensitive to move just yet. He turns to her, ready to ask a question so she kisses him then tries to smooth his hair as best she can.  
  
"There's a stream nearby, we can at least..." she trails off, gesturing to his beard and her face because it's one thing for the whole camp to know but it's another to walk back the way they are now.  
  
"Maybe in a minute, s'not like they'll send out a search party."  
  
"Did I ever tell you about the time someone did that with my clan? I have _never_ gotten dressed so fast in all my life."  
  
He laughs and Elgar'nan he doesn't laugh enough, she's determined to have laughter lines replace some of those furrows born of worry. "I've had similar experiences, never outdoors though mind."  
  
"There was a cave and we thought we were the only two and might as well make the best of it. And then suddenly we heard shouting."  
  
"Once at a ball I attended, a young lady and I alone in a study. Maker the excuse we came up with was the most ridiculous nonsense, good thing her chaperone was a bit too drunk to care." She snorts at that and Blackwall gets to his feet, offering her a hand. "Right, to this stream of yours then and back to the camp?"  
  
"Sounds good," she agrees, steadying herself but she can walk even if her leathers are sitting uncomfortably. She slings the harness for her blades over her shoulder and Blackwall carries his sword in his hand instead of strapping it back on as they head to the stream and wash quickly, only a few muttered curses at the cold – they're outdoor people, this has never bothered her, it was always just a fact of life.  
  
Of course there's laughter when they stroll back to camp – armour not sitting correctly, flushed cheeks and mussed hair – but no one really cares much, just jokes amongst friends and the inquisitor is just another person like the rest of them. The real comments will come tomorrow when they set out and she's thankful that it's Dorian and Varric and not Bull or Sera but she doesn't care, not when she gets Blackwall out of his armour and lets him strip her of her own in their tent. For a change, all feels right with the world and she stretches out next to Blackwall with a smile on her face. She'll go off and bathe properly in the morning before first light but right now she'll fall asleep in the arms of someone that loves her, surrounded by friends and allies who feel the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from poem 12 by Sappho:  
> Percussion, salt and honey,  
> A quivering in the thighs;  
> He shakes me all over again,  
> Eros who cannot be thrown,  
> Who stalks on all fours  
> Like a beast.


End file.
